have a tv, read the papers…any of that. I don’t know who’s right or who’s wrong, if there is such a thing.”
“England’s wrong, man.”
“I can’t read for the I.R.A., Eddie.”
“All right, then…”
The eggs were done. He sat down, peeled them, put on some toast and mixed the Sanka in with the hot water. He got down the eggs and toast and had two coffees. Then he went back to bed.
He was just about asleep when the phone rang again. He got up and answered it.
“Mr. Mayer?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Mike Haven, I’m a friend of Stuart Irving’s. We once appeared in Stone Mule together when Stone Mule was edited in Salt Lake City.”
“Yes?”
“I’m down from Montana for a week. I’m staying at the Hotel Sheraton here in town. I’d like to come see you and talk to you.”
“Today’s a bad day, Mike.”
“Well, maybe I can come over later in the week?”
“Yes, why don’t you call me later on?”
“You know, Joe, I write just like you do, both in poetry and prose. I want to bring some of my stuff over and read it to you. You’ll be surprised. My stuff is really powerful.”
“Oh yes?”
“You’ll see.”
The mailman was next. One letter. Joe opened it:
Dear Mr. Mayer:
I got your address from Sylvia who you used to write to in Paris many years ago. Sylvia is still alive in San Francisco today and still writing her wild and prophetic and angelic and mad poems. I’m living in Los Angeles now and would just love to come and visit you! Please tell me when it would be all right with you.
love, Diane
Joe got out of his robe and got dressed. The phone rang again. He walked over to it, looked at it and didn’t answer it. He walked out, got into his car and drove it toward Santa Anita. He drove slowly. He turned the radio on and got some symphony music. It wasn’t too smoggy. He drove down Sunset, took his favorite cutoff, drove over the hill toward Chinatown, past the Annex, up past Little Joe’s, past Chinatown and took the slow easy ride past the railroad yards, looking down at the old brown boxcars. If he were any damned good at painting he’d like to get that one down. Maybe he’d paint them anyhow. He drove in up Broadway and over Huntington Drive to the track. He got a corned beef sandwich and a coffee, split the Form and sat down. It looked like a fair card.
He caught Rosalena in the first at $10.80, Wife’s Objection in the second at $9.20 and hooked them in the daily double for $48.40. He’d had $2 win on Rosalena and $5 win on Wife’s Objection, so he was $73.20 up. He ran out on Sweetott, was second with Harbor Point, second with Pitch Out, second with Brannan, all win bets, and he was sitting $48.20 ahead when he hit $20 win on Southern Cream, which brought him back to $73.20 again.
It wasn’t bad at the track. He only met three people he knew. Factory workers. Black. From the old days.
The eighth race was the problem. Cougar who was packing 128 was in against Unconscious packing 123. Joe didn’t consider the others in the race. He couldn’t make up his mind. Cougar was 3-to-5 and Unconscious was 7-to-2. Being $73.20 ahead he felt he could afford the luxury of betting the 3-to-5 shot. He laid $30 win. Cougar broke sluggishly, acting as if he were running in a ditch. By the time he was halfway around the first turn he was 17 lengths back of the lead horse. Joe knew he had a loser. At the finish his 3-to-5 was five lengths back and the race was over.
He went $10 and $10 on Barbizon, Jr. and Lost at Sea in the ninth, failed, and walked out with $23.20. It was easier picking tomatoes. He got into his old car and drove slowly back…
Just as he got into the tub the doorbell rang. He toweled and got into his shirt and pants. It was Max Billinghouse. Max was in his early twenties, toothless, red-haired. He worked as a janitor and always wore bluejeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He sat down in a chair and crossed his
“England’s wrong, man.”
“I can’t read for the I.R.A., Eddie.”
“All right, then…”
The eggs were done. He sat down, peeled them, put on some toast and mixed the Sanka in with the hot water. He got down the eggs and toast and had two coffees. Then he went back to bed.
He was just about asleep when the phone rang again. He got up and answered it.
“Mr. Mayer?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Mike Haven, I’m a friend of Stuart Irving’s. We once appeared in Stone Mule together when Stone Mule was edited in Salt Lake City.”
“Yes?”
“I’m down from Montana for a week. I’m staying at the Hotel Sheraton here in town. I’d like to come see you and talk to you.”
“Today’s a bad day, Mike.”
“Well, maybe I can come over later in the week?”
“Yes, why don’t you call me later on?”
“You know, Joe, I write just like you do, both in poetry and prose. I want to bring some of my stuff over and read it to you. You’ll be surprised. My stuff is really powerful.”
“Oh yes?”
“You’ll see.”
The mailman was next. One letter. Joe opened it:
Dear Mr. Mayer:
I got your address from Sylvia who you used to write to in Paris many years ago. Sylvia is still alive in San Francisco today and still writing her wild and prophetic and angelic and mad poems. I’m living in Los Angeles now and would just love to come and visit you! Please tell me when it would be all right with you.
love, Diane
Joe got out of his robe and got dressed. The phone rang again. He walked over to it, looked at it and didn’t answer it. He walked out, got into his car and drove it toward Santa Anita. He drove slowly. He turned the radio on and got some symphony music. It wasn’t too smoggy. He drove down Sunset, took his favorite cutoff, drove over the hill toward Chinatown, past the Annex, up past Little Joe’s, past Chinatown and took the slow easy ride past the railroad yards, looking down at the old brown boxcars. If he were any damned good at painting he’d like to get that one down. Maybe he’d paint them anyhow. He drove in up Broadway and over Huntington Drive to the track. He got a corned beef sandwich and a coffee, split the Form and sat down. It looked like a fair card.
He caught Rosalena in the first at $10.80, Wife’s Objection in the second at $9.20 and hooked them in the daily double for $48.40. He’d had $2 win on Rosalena and $5 win on Wife’s Objection, so he was $73.20 up. He ran out on Sweetott, was second with Harbor Point, second with Pitch Out, second with Brannan, all win bets, and he was sitting $48.20 ahead when he hit $20 win on Southern Cream, which brought him back to $73.20 again.
It wasn’t bad at the track. He only met three people he knew. Factory workers. Black. From the old days.
The eighth race was the problem. Cougar who was packing 128 was in against Unconscious packing 123. Joe didn’t consider the others in the race. He couldn’t make up his mind. Cougar was 3-to-5 and Unconscious was 7-to-2. Being $73.20 ahead he felt he could afford the luxury of betting the 3-to-5 shot. He laid $30 win. Cougar broke sluggishly, acting as if he were running in a ditch. By the time he was halfway around the first turn he was 17 lengths back of the lead horse. Joe knew he had a loser. At the finish his 3-to-5 was five lengths back and the race was over.
He went $10 and $10 on Barbizon, Jr. and Lost at Sea in the ninth, failed, and walked out with $23.20. It was easier picking tomatoes. He got into his old car and drove slowly back…
Just as he got into the tub the doorbell rang. He toweled and got into his shirt and pants. It was Max Billinghouse. Max was in his early twenties, toothless, red-haired. He worked as a janitor and always wore bluejeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He sat down in a chair and crossed his
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